


Bunny, Kitten

by obfuscatress



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Penis In Vagina Sex, top!roxy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:33:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24607033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obfuscatress/pseuds/obfuscatress
Summary: For having seen her at her worst - sick, beaten to a pulp, doped up, and catty from lying in the hot sand for a whole day on a stakeout - Merlin treats her sweet as honey.
Relationships: Merlin/Roxy Morton | Lancelot
Comments: 11
Kudos: 32





	Bunny, Kitten

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mang_o](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mang_o/gifts).



> Written for Mango, who asked for Established Relationship + Smut + top!Roxy. Thank you so much for the request!

There’s something sharp digging into the back of her forearm, turned soft as soon as she swats at it. It takes her several moments and as many layers of a confusing dream to realise that she’s at home, and that the creature demanding her attention is none other than her own cat.

“Ugh, you naughty little thing,” she groans. The cat sneaks closer and plops itself down by her face. “You’re not supposed to be in here.”

At this rate, she’s going to have to spend ages picking grey fur off Merlin’s ridiculous linens - black cotton with a thread count approaching infinity - because the man is particular about his bed in ways she’s never going to understand. Though normally the calmer of them, he has a temper over the most frivolous things and the state of the bed is one. Training Mowgli out of sleeping with her after the persian had free roam of the bed at her old place was an exercise in patience that Roxy isn’t about to undo for the sake of one lie in.

“Sweetheart, you can’t be here. Shoo!”

When Mowgli makes no effort to move, she sighs, groans even louder into the pillow, and pushes herself up onto her elbows. Clearly she won’t be taken seriously after she’s been comatose next to the cat for god knows how long already, so Roxy is forced to crawl out of bed, wrap herself up in a robe, and scoop the cat up. She curls Mowgli tightly against her chest in spite of the cat’s yowls of protest. Roxy carries her out of the room, all too aware of the fact that she could’ve used a few more hours of rest.

The morning after a mission is a special kind of hell, a real moment of having to scrape the bottom of the barrel for a scrap of motivation to put yourself back together again after you’ve just splattered someone else’s brains across the tarmac of a private runway somewhere in the Carribean. She can still feel the dull imprint of a boot on her buttock where a guy shoved her down hard before she shot his kneecap to pieces.

_ The violence she inflicts in the name of peace _ , Roxy thinks and shudders.

“Good morning, kitten.” The voice is darker than usual, stained the colour of tar from two torturous weeks apart.

Roxy glares in its direction, but all Merlin is giving her is the back of his freshly shaved head, his attention on the stove. It’s a too-carefully calculated nonchalance, drenched in restraint, and begging to be undone.

“Did you let her in?” she demands to know.

“The cat was so upset,” Merlin says, head tilted just enough that she can catch the corner of his eye behind the rim of his glasses, “I worried she’d wake you up.”

“Oh, bullshit,” Roxy says, because Merlin’s never pretended to care about Mowgli’s welfare.

When she’d first gotten the cat, he’d outright hated her. Admittedly, it was mostly because it had landed them both in hot water: Roxy had snuck her onto the Kingsman jet as a kitten during a mission extraction, back when Mowgli was nothing but a nameless stray in a hot country, and, well, the mountain of paperwork it had resulted in for Merlin was almost worse than the reprimand she’d gotten from Arthur.

It was a grudge he held onto for nearly a whole year, until Roxy moved in with him and Mowgli became his to care for while she was away. As endearing as she is fluffy, the cat wasted no time in waltzing right past his defenses and, although he still won’t admit to liking her, it’s now Roxy who’s become the stern one.

“If you want her to stay out of your ludicrous bed,” she says, petting Mowgli’s head, “you can’t make exceptions.”

Merlin holds her gaze.

“Maybe it’s you I wanted to treat.”

The words crawl up her spine like electricity and Roxy turns away to set the cat down, embarrassed that he can still make her blush so easily after three years. It seems silly to admit now, but when they first crossed the boundary from co-workers into the bedroom, Roxy was certain they’d tire of each other in a matter of months, because that’s how it tended to play out for her. She’d hit the deep end of something that was always going to be shallow, or someone would become jealous, or she’d just not find herself being bothered anymore, time suddenly a tricky commitment to make.

And granted, they’ve not gone unscathed, but surprisingly, fucking a coworker twice her age and quite literally in charge of her life has quite possibly been the most functional relationship she’s ever had.

Void of drunken fights in a dark corner of a club and dirty looks from across the lecture hall, he’s a far cry from her uni affairs. She’s not had a drawerful of her clothes thrown at her from a second floor window and she hasn’t cried on the kitchen floor with two housemates and a bottle of wine for comfort, complaining about what a pig he is.

There’s nothing theatrical and dramatized about their relationship, but it doesn’t allow for fairytale notions either. When they argue, it’s in hushed, civil whispers in a hospital room, her left eye black and her ribs cracked. It’s a slammed door at 3am begging for space, the issue carefully reheated over breakfast and resolved before work.

For having seen her at her worst - sick, beaten, doped up, and catty from lying in the hot sand for a whole day on a stakeout - he treats her sweet as honey.

Mellowed by a long night’s sleep, Roxy pads over to peer into the pan from behind him, craning her neck sideways because she can’t see over his shoulder even on her tippy toes. “What are you making?”

“Blueberry pancakes.”

“They look a bit like me,” she says. Sensing the furrow that forms on his brows, she adds: “Mottled blue.”

“They’re still delicious,” Merlin argues and when she flicks her eyes up to look at him, he’s looking right back. It’s not with hunger, or pity; this is simply how he sees her and Roxy can’t keep herself from pushing at his shoulder to twist him to face her, rise onto the balls of her feet, and kiss him for it.

It’s only meant to be a moment’s touch - a drop of syrup - but his hand lands on her waist, so she stays and leans into it. Somewhere, his hand finds the dial on the stove off and turns it off,  _ click click click, _ ticking down to the moment when his body crowds into hers.

The way she retreats is a well-worn routine, two steps and there’s the cool marble of the island. She kisses him again, languid and savouring, the words, “I missed you,” dissolving into the touch.

He’s more decadent when he isn’t hurried.

Roxy remembers discovering that as their relationship started inching into ever deeper waters - from no strings to casual dates to the inevitable, far too formal series of coming outs to family and friends.

Eggsy, though he still teases her, hadn’t been too bad once he got his jaw off the floor, but her sister didn’t take it nearly as well. Which one of them her sister tried to gut with the look she gave them when she found out, Roxy still can’t say, but two Christmases and a christening later, Merlin’s reception has thawed from icy to lukewarm - slow and steady his forte.

All the things that would have driven her away not five years ago (steady, dependable, devoted nature) have become the source of a flame she’s nurtured on an ember for so long, she can’t imagine life without it. Could she go back to getting her pets out of the Kingsman kennels after every mission? Or a windowsill void of his succulent pots? An office of which half isn’t overflowing with loose wires and the skeletons of dying pet projects?

Silly as it is, she doesn’t even want to let go of the silky sheets and the black vintage leather couches she used to make fun of him for -  _ God, your apartment just screams middle aged fuckwit _ . How lonely would her nights be if, jolted out of a mission-tensed sleep, she couldn’t lay there in the midnight air cooling off, just trying to remember where every mole on his back is in relation to the crater of a bullet wound that got him medically discharged from the army twenty-eight years ago?

She can’t imagine knowing anyone else like this, or to be known by anyone like she is with him. He’s been privy to the cold, mortuary light photographs of every single one of her injuries in the field. It’s Merlin who’s sat sleepless and back aching in a crappy plastic chair by her hospital bed or helped her through arduous rounds of physiotherapy exercises. He’s the one in her ear every time she sprints down a windowless corridor, headed towards or away from destruction in turns, always ready to fling her full weight at anyone and anything at his command.

But there are no heroics here and at home, it’s Merlin who listens to  _ her _ . When Roxy tugs at his shirt, he comes closer, his hand on the small of her back while hers lowers to rest on the counter. She’s the action and he the reaction, her teeth on his lips the prompt for his fingers to dig into her flesh hard and ugly.

Roxy flinches at the pressure of the counter on her bruised buttock and he withdraws in the span of the strained breath she sucks in at the surprise of it.

“Sorry,” he says, “I forget sometimes.” 

His lips are the colour of wine, wet from the interruption, and Roxy reaches for him instinctively. “You aren’t the one who hurt me,” she reminds him, because the injuries have been a point of contention before.

Good handlers and good soldiers - it’s the age old argument.

“Still,” he says and traces a finger down her cheek, “I never want to make it worse.”

“The only thing you’re making worse right now, is a very particular kind of frustration,” Roxy tells him matter of factly, though the serious tone is undercut by the smirk that tugs at the corner of her mouth. “Lips, neck, go.”

Renowned for backchat at work, he’s surprisingly good at taking orders at home; he doesn’t need to be told twice for his mouth to find the underside of her jaw.

The angle is a challenge no matter how far onto the balls of her feet she rolls, so he sweeps her off the floor, mindful to put as much pressure as possible on her uninjured side. His right hand slides under her thigh while the left cups her arse.

It’s a move she’s sure he pulls just to her her yelp with surprise.

She remembers wondering once how long he would be able to do this for, only to realise she didn’t care if he couldn’t one day because no one else could make it feel as thrilling. In his arms, she can be boneless without surrender, and that in itself is half the appeal.

Merlin nips at the skin over her jugular. Roxy bites back a moan. When he does it again, her arms tighten around his neck and she accidentally kicks him in the hip, earning her a muffled yelp.

“Christ, someone’s eager,” he quips even though his eyes, too, are all pupil. Neck flushed, pulse racing: for being a wolf in sheep’s clothing, he’s every bit as hungry as her.

“Oh, have I misjudged the moment, because I’ll breakfast if  _ you’re _ not in the mood,” Roxy says in her daintiest voice.

“Didn’t say that. There’s a little life left in me yet.”

“And are you going to spend the rest of it chattin’ shit or are you gonna fuck me?” Roxy demands.

“Watch your mouth, missy.”

“I’d rather watch yours. Although you’ll have to do more than talk to keep my attention.”

“Oh, is that so?”

She sees the flash of mischief in his face just before he lets go of her, so Roxy manages to cling to him without too far, his laugh already resonating in her chest while she’s still in the middle of growling, “Don’t you dare!”

His hands resettle on her body, firmer than before, and his lips press against her cheek in a placating gesture. Although Roxy has never said so, she enjoys these kisses the most - the gentle hover of lip against her temple after a long day, the cheek peck goodbye, his lips against her fingertips or on the tip of her nose ever so soft. There’s a different kind of intimacy in it, something that’s so casual, it’d be easy to dismiss if it wasn’t the most curated form of affection she’s experienced.

Kissing someone ferociously in a club is far easier than making eye contact after something as innocuous as lips pressed against a forehead. She still doesn’t know how to do it back, though Roxy has devised her own language; her love is written in mugs of periodically refilled coffee and the pressure of her thumbs sinking into the knots in Merlin’s perma-stiff shoulders.

She drags one along the ridge of his shoulder blade now, pleased he’s a tangible presence again instead of just a voice in her ear. “You know I missed you.”

“We can rectify that,” Merlin says. He carries her out of the kitchen and past Antebellum’s sleeping form towards the bedroom.

“Am I spared the sofa today?” she purrs, “What a treat.”

“Could be a punishment yet.”

“Oh yeah?” She bites her lip and reaches to take his glasses off and fold them neatly.

The bedroom is still dim from the blinds she didn’t bother opening, so it takes her eyes a moment to readjust to Merlin’s face when he throws her onto bed. He kneels over her without pretense, the snark gone as he snogs her near senseless.

Roxy has nearly forgotten about the glasses by the time he slips them out of her hand and puts them on the nightstand. When he leans back over her, she tugs at the hem of his t-shirt, impatient, and pulls it over his head.

In this light, the scars on him are nearly invisible, not that there are a great deal to begin with. Merlin has always been support staff, but that hasn’t spared him from the odd mishap in the field. There’s the burn mark from a grenade gone off in close quarters, the puckered line of a knife that’s hacked a line into his rib, the twin tooth marks of a taser with the voltage set too high.

She’s been lucky to mostly have injuries that fade, although Roxy has no doubt she too will amass a flurry of more permanent marks. The inch long strip of a scar she has over her shoulder from a particularly nasty gouge mark is a favourite of his to trace over, and he finds it now too: the pad of his fingertip cold over smooth skin.

The movement of his hand makes her robe slip away to expose the tip of her shoulder, so he bends down to kiss the bony prominence. The arm he isn’t propped up on snakes its way between their bodies to undo her belt tie before his hand slips under the fabric and pushes it aside.

Being exposed like that leaves Roxy shivering, her skin pricking up in goosebumps that travel up her arm and down her side, nipples standing to attention. His palm on her abdomen only makes the surrounding air feel cooler and Roxy squirms under the touch, unsure of whether she’s trying to get closer to or away from it.

Whichever it is, Merlin wastes no time in settling the matter for her. He’s never been one to voice jealousy over the things she does for missions even though every feigned moan is directly in his ear, but when she comes back, the possessiveness rears its head, so he pulls her toward himself by the waist and exposes the rest of her with a quick sweep of the hand.

Roxy half expects him to devour her that instant, but he takes his time instead, admiring her with a restraint that’s far more telling of his hunger than a loss of control ever could be. The waiting makes her impatient, but Roxy knows the more she squirms, the longer he’ll look because the more there will be to see: light and shadow and movement all playing into each other.

She clears her throat to draw his attention away from her breast. His gaze flicks up to meet hers. “Am I keeping you from something?” Merlin asks, deceptively calm.

When Roxy presses her lips together instead of answering, he leans in closer, face turned sideways and so that his ear is right above her mouth so he can hear her gasp when he dips a hand between her legs.

“Fucking tease,” Roxy whispers through it and she doesn’t need to see his face to sense the smile.

She doesn’t get the chance to say anything else before his mouth is back on hers. The kiss doesn’t last long, his mouth journeying down her body instead. His lips on her neck, a hint of teeth over her collarbone, the flat of his tongue over a nipple. Merlin traces a series of kisses across her abdomen, so close to her his upper lip drags along her skin each time he moves lower.

Stooped over her uncomfortably by now, Merlin scoots back off the bed to kneel on the floor by the edge of the mattress. It robs her of the touch of his fingers, though it put his head level with her pelvis so he can duck to run the tip of his tongue along the edge of her hip bone.

Roxy should’ve known that jawline meant trouble when she first laid eyes on him; she certainly does now, averting her eyes to the ceiling as he’s closing in on her, hot with anticipation.

Her breath hitches at the touch of his tongue on moist flesh, soft on the upstroke and firm as it flicks back down over her clit. She tries to reconcile this mouth and this feeling with the voice she’s had in her ear all this time: lying on the tarmac at a private runway in Cambodia with the breath knocked out of her; words of command, question, and entertainment peppered through her earpiece in the midst of a black tie gala; the click of his tongue when she says something naughty over the comms.

Just before the final leg of her last mission, she lay atop the covers of her hotel bed sweating under the AC thinking of him just like this - mouth on her cunt - and here they are: his t-shirt and £400 sheets crumpling in her ever-tightening grip.

She sighs as his tongue slips into her, warm and insistent for the few moments before he spreads her wide open with his fingers and draws himself up to suck on her clit again. It pulls the pit of her stomach right to the surface, liquid and quaking. Roxy has to remind herself how to breathe - in and out, the sound far too loud as it rustles over the bounding pulse in her temples.

She’s still half wrapped in the silk robe, her arms trapped in the sleeves, thighs slipping on the fabric as she tries to get a hold of herself. Merlin cups her knee and presses her leg back down into the mattress. How he is keeping his restraint is beyond her, but Roxy resists and pushes back, always proving a point.

She gets a stern look for the trouble that’s meant to discourage her but only serves to make the heat rise into her face faster. The sight of him half buried in her is unbearable, so she lets her eyes wander astray again - go in and out of focus on the textured ceiling and roll towards the window. Her vision swims from the vertigo of it.

Every moment is a delightful kind of agonising. Her nails dig into her palms and unwind again, the bed an ocean beneath her for all she knows, her hips tilting through roll after roll. It’s all so delicious and far too slow.

Part of her could drag this out forever, see how long Merlin can eat her out for before admitting defeat, but another part of her (rapidly forming and increasingly insistent) just wants to get off. It’s at the moment when she draws blood from the inside edge of her lip that she finally decides to give in.

“Up,” Roxy commands, dragging one heel up his back to coax him to move while her other foot lands on Merlin’s shoulder and pushes.

He goes reluctantly and licks his lips to make a point.

Roxy takes the opportunity to slip out of her robe and rise up to her knees where he meets her halfway to kiss her. It’s simultaneously lewd and oddly thrilling to taste herself on him and it only serves to make her more impatient.

She makes quick work of his belt and zipper, his insistence on wearing washed out jeans at home the bane of her existence. She hooks her thumbs into the waistband of both the trousers and Merlin’s briefs to tug them off at once.

His cock springs up just that little bit harder from the added friction of her callousness and she knows he’s going to say something about it, so Roxy pulls him down with more force than usual to suck the breath right out of him.

“Careful, I’m not what I used to be,” Merlin tries to joke when she shoves him onto the mattress.

“The day you’re too frail to get roughed up in bed is still miles off,” Roxy replies. Doubling down, she pushes him further up the bed. “Move!”

He obeys without protest, letting her press his torso up against the headboard before she scoots up close to him and swings a leg over him. They’ve done this often enough that Merlin knows not to intervene when Roxy gets like this - alight with an untameable frenzy, eyes dark and her skin glistening - so instead he rests his hands on her hips while she lines herself up over him and sinks down slowly.

It’s part self-indulgence, part punishment to take her time, the groan it draws from him delectable. Sat in his lap, her hands briefly ghost over his, then she grips the top of the headboard for some leverage and starts to move.

The initial rolls are slow, both an adjustment to and a savouring of the pressure. There’s always a relief for her in having him inside her, a temporary ebbing of the frustration while the pleasure continues to build, her hips bucking on their own accord every time she reaches the base of his cock.

“You know, you’ll be the death of me one of these days,” Merlin murmurs, his eyes unfocused over her face as he runs a hand over her hair and pushes it back over her shoulder for a full view of her tits.

It’s a compliment like no other, so Roxy lets her smile come out unabashed when she whispers: “Don’t go forgettin’ it either.”

His grip on her tightens at the words is just shy of bruising because he knows better than to leave marks. Still, it spurs her on to move faster and she isn’t the only one; by now, Merlin has grown impatient enough to fuck into her as much as she’s fucking him.

Roxy clamps a hand on his left shoulder and lets her nails cut crescents into his skin as she tenses her muscles around him for that extra bit of contact. It’s a momentary thing at first, but a few strokes later she slows to make it last, the drag that much more pleasing.

She doesn’t know when she’s stopped breathing or how her forehead has ended up on his shoulder resting on the back of her own hand; all she’s aware of anymore is the feeling of her insides tumbling over themselves again and again. Roxy lets out a choked sound somewhere in the midst of it all, vaguely aware of the fact that Merlin is holding her ever so gently: one hand on her waist, the other cradling the back of her head.

There are eons compressed into the seconds that tick away while she’s gasping to make up for the breaths she forgot to take. Every bit of tension in her body unspools and she shivers, a few notes of a laugh spilling out of her as an afterthought of the orgasm.

“God, I needed that,” Roxy sighs once she can form words through her erratic breathlessness again.

“I can tell,” murmurs Merlin, clearly satisfied on her behalf even though he must be in agony himself.

Remembering that, she says, “We’re not done yet,” because Roxy isn’t about to leave him like this. “You’ll have to do the work though, because my legs are  _ jelly _ .”

As if to illustrate the point, she nearly falls over getting off of him, her body protesting at having to move so soon, even if it is just to flop down on the mattress.

Roxy offers him her dirtiest smile as he climbs over her and says: “Do your worst.”

It’s all the encouragement he needs to sink back into her. This time it’s  _ his _ forehead that comes to rest on  _ her  _ shoulder, his breathing torn and wet against her collarbone. She wraps a leg behind his back to ease the pressure on her bruised arse and tilts her hips up to match his pace. A bolt of affection shooting through her as she nibbles at the ear oh so conveniently close and he flushes through to the helices, embarrassingly turned on..

Minutes, hours, Roxy can’t tell how much time passes lying there breathing him in before Merlin, too, comes in a flurry of cut off words and cursing. It’s exactly this that she loves about being home, about being with him: it’s the only time she can get lost without consequence. There’s no need to keep an eye on the exits; Her racing heart isn’t a testament to danger and nothing about her needs to be a lie.

Who could ever understand that but another Kingsman? It’s the one thing she can’t explain to everyone who’s questioned their relationship - her sister, friends, and parents - and yet it’s what makes him irreplaceable in her mind.

Genuine love without pretense; she can’t hope for anyone as sincere as him, so Roxy presses her cheek to his face and waits to come off the edge of this high.

When Merlin finally makes an attempt to move, she draws her arm away from his back and says: “I need a shower. Desperately.”

“Me too,” he sighs, “so don’t dawdle. We only have an hour.”

Confused, Roxy props herself up on her elbows. “An hour till what?”

“It’s Murray’s party today. We’re expected at your sister’s by three.”

“Shit!” She bolts into a sitting position and starts scrambling for her robe. “I completely forgot about that. We need to-”

“It’s fine; present’s wrapped and ready to go by the door and I’ve put out an outfit for you to hide the worst of the Velasquez affair.”

It isn’t until that moment that she notices the ochre maxi dress hanging over the closet door, a pearl-tinted, long-sleeved turtleneck to be layered underneath slung over the bar of the hanger. She barely even remembers owning the thing, but it’s perfect for a cool August day.

Still, there’s no time to waste. Roxy clamours out of the bed and pulls the robe back on. 

“What did you buy him?”

“I didn’t buy anything,” Merlin says casually and at the look she throws at him, adds: “The present is a pet project o’ sorts. It’s the kid’s bedroom version of a planetarium - basically just a cube with a projector in it.”

That it’s every kid’s dream goes unsaid.

“You’re far too nice,” Roxy tells him, though it’s hardly an admonishment. After all, she gets to reap the benefits of being Murray’s favourite aunt thanks to it.

“Don’t ever imply as much to Bedivere; it’s enough work hard trying to keep her in check with the reputation for warmth of a glacier.”

“Of course not,” Roxy says, sugar sweet. “This version of you is all mine.”

She gives him a quick peck before she snatches up his wrinkled shirt to take with her to the hamper in the bath.

She’s halfway down the hall when she stops and shouts back: “Mowgli!”

The cat, halfway across the threshold to the bedroom looks up at her, considers its options, and sits down on the spot even though she knows the human on the bed wouldn’t have minded in the slightest if she wormed her way back into the sheets.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at [twitter](https://twitter.com/Shippress) or [tumblr](http://obfuscatress.tumblr.com/).


End file.
